We Love You, Ron-O.

This morning, I woke up early. 

The baby was crying, and needed to eat.  I did what I always do…I opened up my phone, and scrolled through Facebook.  And the first thing I saw was the thing that, although I knew was coming, had been dreading just the same.

My dear friend, Ron, had finally been released from his ongoing battle with cancer. 

I met Ron in 2009, and worked with him until we made our way from Maryland to Colorado on a PCS.  When we moved back to Maryland, Ron was one of the small group of friends I was excited to see again.  As trite as retrospect can be, I wish I’d seen him more.  Because Ron taught me things.  He reminded me of things I already knew, and he reinforced things I try to practice in my day to day life. 

I learned a lot of things from him…like how important it is to have someone’s back, even when you want to stab them in it.  Ron was a consistent open door, even when it would have been easier to close it.   He stood against the masses when the masses were wrong, even when the weight of those masses seemed like they should have been crushing. 

Ron did not judge.  Rather, he hugged.  He laughed.  He smiled.  When doing things for himself would have been the easiest route, Ron took the hard route so that he could bring someone who needed help on the same journey.  It didn't even matter what the journey was, really…it was just common knowledge that Ron would extend his hand and heart and offer you a firm grip on both. 

He’d been living with the disease for quite some time.  It was rough, and it was agonizing.  He allowed us into it.  He never hid his pain, or masked his difficulties.  Rather, he opened it all to us and drenched it in a such a positive way that it made us adore and admire the hell out of him even more. 

There are so many admirable qualities that Ron reminded me were important to keep a hold of.  And because I was lucky enough to have him in my life for a little while, I will work a little harder every day to keep those qualities from falling by the wayside of everyday life. 

The Army is not an easy way to live.  It’s easy to lose track, to get too busy.  It’s easy to become inundated with the day to day.  At home, at work…there are so many ways to become enveloped in our own lives and forget the importance of those we hold dear. 

Thank you, Ron Kyle, for being a part of my life and the lives of so many others. 

Your presence will be missed.  But your wonderful, kind, funny, thoughtful and jiggy ways will not.  Because they will continue, my friend. 

We love you. 

But then, you know that.  

Glow On.

I've noticed some rumblings today about the Coke commercial from last night.  Here’s my take: 

No one can take away your shine.  No one is going to block your glow.  And the more we learn to glow together, the brighter things will be. 

Here’s the thing:  If you are upset by diversity, there is a period of inner reflection that should occur, and no one can start down that road for you.  We ALL have struggles, and all have things we aren't proud of…and all have things that we can be WILDLY proud of.  The location we were birthed should not factor into that pride.  What language we were taught during our formative years should not pigeonhole our existence.  What should be recognized is the strength, courage and love of self and family that goes into being able to pack up an entire home and move to another country in the fervent hope we can give something better to our children.  To their children.  To our family name.  And there are places that, unfortunately, those opportunities are not readily available.  

But they are here.  

And improvement should not be taken for granted, no matter how it is dressed or what language it speaks when it arrives.

No one living currently built this country on their back.  We should be as grateful for what we are given by being citizens of this country as those who have been the tired and poor, yearning to breathe free. 

If we want people to earn their keep, we should earn ours.  But instead of earning keep in America, we should earn our keep within humanity.  

We've Worked Hard...Now It's Your Turn.

I feel compelled, during this serious reign of ignorance and insolence and insanity, to write something.  And I don't even really know what to write, to be honest.  It is not likely that this information will be new to anyone who reads it.  Because everyone knows someone affected by the government shutdown.  There are so many directions to look, so many points to be made...so I'm just going to share my story and my feelings.    

My husband is a Staff Sergeant in the United States Army.  I am a disabled Army veteran.  I am seven months pregnant with our second child, and I have two wonderful stepchildren.  Currently, my husband is out of the country, as are many others.  If his return ticket had not already been purchased, he would be required to remain out of the country until the government reopened.

Most of the country is upset at the government shutdown.  Congress' approval rating is at 10%.  Hell, I currently like oral surgery and scrubbing toilets more than I like the government. Like many families, we are a household dependent upon two incomes.  My husband's earnings, thank goodness, have been secured (albeit secured last minute).  The Veterans Affairs office has said that they are capable of dispersing one more round of payment, and after that will be unable to make any more until the government is reopened.  The same is being said of VA educational benefits, I'm hearing. 

A good friend of mine is now furloughed from his government job.  He has a wife and two children.  This morning, I read many jokes on our local installation's Facebook page regarding the craziness ensuing on other posts due to things like commissary closures and shifts in the capabilities of silly, inconsequential things like Military Treatment Facilities and Armed Forces academies.  

We have worked without water and food.  We have worked without showers.  We have worked without sleep, and at times without medical attention.  A large number of us have worked and lived below the poverty line and without our loved ones in order to provide for this country.  We are students.  Neighbors.  Friends.  Daughters, sons, wives, husbands, and parents.  We are members of every community spanning the United States. 

We are not a family whose vacation to Yellowstone has been interrupted.  We are not a small business whose loan has been postponed.  We are a cog in a vast group of people who have worked and will continue to work tirelessly and selflessly. 

And we expect the same in return.  

Pinterest is Ruining My Nursery

Shut up.  This minute...this instant.  Just shut up.  I get it.  I'm behind the Pinterest-is-runing-my-life power curve.  I know that there are memes, websites and social media posts out the wazoo commemorating this topic. 

First there was the initial Rabbit Hole aspect.  People (and when I say people, I mean me) spent hours upon hours just looking at recipes, decor, clothing.  It had everything from pinot noir storage to puppies, and I was hooked.  I neglected Facebook, the news, homework...it was all the happy things in the world I wanted to see, and none of that starving animal, Wall Street 1%, Presidential race crap I was so tired of looking at.  I willingly allowed all of the intelligence in my life to be overwhelmed and pushed to the wayside by watercolor paintings of Chanel purses, and didn't regret a moment of it. 

I know now that I am not the only one stricken with this affliction...in the time it has taken me to write this, six people have repinned it.  No joke.  SIX.  And I know that I should just let my hormones simma down and get over myself.  Which I would be happy to do, if I didn't want so badly to make this:

The full set of which can be found here.

  I know, right?!?! You risk a friggin' mental EXPLOSION looking at all this awesomeness. 

So the timeline of this whole thing was relatively simple...I decided to wait a bit to decorate until I really had a good idea for the nursery.  Partly because I didn't want to be overly enthusiastic (particularly before we were sure of the gender), and partly I wanted something super cool.  Okay, mostly because I wanted something super cool.  Then, one day as we're wandering La Boutique Target, the hubby says:

                "Hey, how about pirates?  Can we do PIRATES?"

And my answer, as I'm sure you can imagine, was something the eloquent and super classy along the lines of "Shit yes, we can!"

Thus was born the pirate nursery quest. 

And the best idea (and most achievable) idea I've found so far is this super bitchin' pirate ship crib.  At least I thought it was until this morning, when I clicked on the picture and waited for the contributing website to load. 

But it never loaded.  Why, you ask? 

Because there was no cutesy website linked to this picture...there was no "SusieshouseofDIY" or "Daisybabies" or any other gag inducing dotcom crafty site associated with this picture.  There was just a picture of exactly what I want to do for the last of my womb-mates, and not one instruction on how to make it.  I mean, sure, there's a picture.  It even looks pretty simple and self explanatory.  Until you get to the bottom of the rope thing. 

Seriously.  Go look.  I'll wait. 

WHAT ARE THOSE?

She Fell Off Her Butter Crock, Ya'll!

www.dailycurrent.com

I know a wide range of people.  Most of them are intelligent, and all have their own opinion on subjects. 

GASP!  I know, right? 

So I preface this piece with this:  I adore the people who read my stuff, and respect their feelings and opinions.  I also happen to like Paula Deen.  But that doesn't mean that she is immune from my writing about her tragedies of late, because I have been shoved into it by repeat Facebook posts on the subject.  So if the redemption of Paula Deen is something you feel strongly about, I suggest you stop reading, because it is likely that this will piss you off. 

Recently I've become amazed (and frankly, slightly shocked) at the number of people that are outraged by Paula Deen's  swift, Aaron Hernandez style, immediate and epic loss of business partnerships.  Her show being discontinued by Food Network, and release by JC Penny, Wal mart, Smithfield and others has been raised to an almost Bono-level of awareness and social media outrage.

The main theme trumpeted by the masses seems to be "She made a mistake, guys! Come on, why should we punish her for a mistake she made 30 years ago?! She's losing everything! What an outrage!"

To which I have the following (repeatedly provoked) responses:

1. Yes, Paula Deen made a mistake.  Yes, it occurred more than two decades ago. One (like me, for example) might even make the argument that she's a 66 year old white woman from Albany, Georgia.  Of course she's racist! That was a time and place that all you were supposed to BE was racist! Well, guess what, people? It is not 1953, and those things are no longer appropriate or socially acceptable.  End of story, no more callers, we have a winner.  And for those that are still racist (ie, saying things like "Who hasn't said something racist?!", bear in mind that you are not the very, very public face of companies with stockholders to whom answers must be given.   

2.  Business partnerships are made because they are mutually beneficial. When those partnerships become less than such, they can (and probably will) become void. Food Network didn't decide against renewing Paula Deen's show to personally punish her. They did it because their ratings were projected to suffer by keeping her show on the air.  Stop acting like food network discontinuing the show is the equivalent of a mother leaving her infant on the steps of a church.  It's unreasonable.

3.  Paula Deen has one truly marketable asset: herself.  Ham and biscuits are super great things, but like most TV personalities, her bread and butter (and butter, and butter) are her grandmother-ly appearance and down-home appeal.  Unfortunately, things from her past came back to haunt her.  Remember when Vanessa Williams had those devastating "artsy" photos surface and lost her Miss America crown?  Tragic and unfair, but it still happened.  Why?  Because what she had done, right or wrong, did not reflect the values of the organization that employed her.  Now to my knowledge, there are no nude Paula pics floating around.  But you can only call Al Roker "Chocolate Face" and tell Matt Lauer and millions of viewers to kill you with a rock and such so many times before you get dropped like a hot stone in the middle of a glass house. 

4.  As of last year (According to www.forbes.com), the Queen of Butter was worth a whopping $17 million.  She will likely see more pay in residuals from book sales and other various business facets in three months than my husband, a Staff Sergeant in the Unites States Army, will see in a year's paycheck.  So a modicum of perspective on the "Paula is losing everything, lets circle the wagons!" rally might do some good.

Basically, Paula Deen has (hopefully) learned a very valuable lesson in corporate marketing and brand survival in the form of her "Hey, Ya'll!" Southern charm being replaced by a less charming, Today Show sobbing aspect, and rapidly taking her from lovable to crucifiable in one fell drop of the N-Bomb.  I truly hope she lived at her level of means and has the savings to retire on.  Because at the end of the day, nothing is guaranteed, and nothing lasts forever.  

Dear Harford County Public School System:

Dear Harford County Public School System,

I am writing this in an attempt to open eyes to (what I fervently hope are) an archaic set of academic values, and to hopefully bring attention to the woefully under explained "Pre K" federal program. Although I am a bit emotional as I draft this, I hope that my goal of bringing the difficulties of the public school system to light may help other parents in the future.

My son's birthday is October 6th, and he will be turning five this year. In April, I inquired about the Pre K program at a local elementary school. My question was met by several heads turning toward me, either scoffing or in disdain. As a new resident to Maryland, I was unaware of the federal status of this program, rather than it's being hosted by the public school system. My ignorance aside, the response I received was short and chilly: "You know this is an income based program."

I use a period at the end of that statement because that is how it was spoken to me. No question, no offer of information. My inquisitive look at the secretary warranted only a glance at my appearance (which in some way, apparently, was indicative my financial superiority). Rather than fight what was clearly going to be a losing, uninformative battle, I reached out to a second local public school, and received more friendly, yet equally uninformative response. Having met with nothing but closing doors, my husband and I looked into the early admission requirements for kindergarten.

According to your 2011-2012 Handbook:

"For entrance to kindergarten, children admitted to the kindergarten program in the public school system shall be five years old on or before September 1st of the school year in which they apply for entrance. Exceptions to the age entrance policy are considered only in very extraordinary circumstances. The standards are rigorous to ensure that children are not frustrated by the advanced placement" (Harford County Public Schools).

Duly noted. I understand that a child frustrated by advanced placement would be a distraction, both to the educators and to the children whose parents loved them enough to birth them on or before September 1st. Your handbook continues:

"Although not encouraged, exceptions to the age of entrance policy are granted by Harford County Public Schools when it is clearly evident that the precocious four-year-old will be effectively served by a rigorous, standard-based curriculum in kindergarten...Exceptional abilities refer to your child being able to read the newspaper, magazines or books. For mathematical ability, word problems should be solved without prompting. Word problems indicate the child’s ability to construct abstract thought" (Harford County Public Schools).

I was interested to find that my son, who can write and verbally spell his name, add, subtract, and regularly uses "hypothesis" (and varying other multisyllabic words) correctly in a sentence would likely be deemed incapable of entering kindergarten 36 days after the age cutoff because he lacked the ”extraordinary circumstances" and "precociousness" sought by way of the exceptional abilities that "refer to your child being able to read the newspaper, magazines or books".

The Maryland state website for educational improvement Standard 1.0 General Reading Processes, however, lists the first task for kindergarten " PHONEMIC AWARENESS: Students will master the ability to hear, identify, and manipulate individual sounds in spoken words by the end of grade one" "General Reading Processes ~ Grade K ~ Reading/ELA Using the State Curriculum ~ School Improvement in Maryland.").

So the questions I pose to you, Harford County School District, are these:

As our child is currently unable to read and I am not a parent able to supply home schooling and our household income exceeds the (albeit federal) standard for Pre K, we are left with two options: paying between $500 and $750 per month for a private learning institution, or not providing our son with the academic curriculum and peer interaction crucial for his age. Does the fact that we are neither destitute nor rich mean our child does not deserve the education provided easily and unreservedly to others?

And how is it, exactly, that the intention of the curriculum for state of Maryland clearly indicates the goal of teaching five and six year old children to read, while my four year old must regale his assessor with a piece from the Associated Press to warrant his entrance to kindergarten?

Sincerely,



Sandra Moyer

Shit My Kids Say

Recently I realized that, as parents, we participate in and overhear an overwhelming amount of insane exchanges.  Here are some of ours:  

Daddy:  What kind of dinosaur is that? 

Drew:  A Tyrranosaurus Rex. 

Daddy:  That's right.  And what's this dinosaur?

Drew:  A Spiny Tyrranosaurus. 

Daddy:  No, that's a Stegosaurus. 

Drew:  Woah.   

*

Scene:  I see Drew climbing up the counter while wearing his Buzz Lightyear costume.

Me:  DREW! 

Drew:  It's okay.  I have super climbing powers.   

Olivia:  Hey, Sandy?  What if we named the baby Destiny? 

Mitch:  That's the kind of name that means you didn't go to college, Olivia.  I know, what if we name the baby Toby, Sandy? 

Olivia:  That's the kind of name you name a dog, Mitchell. 

*

Drew:  Mommy?  Are you awake? 

Me:  (I say nothing.  I'm not stupid.)

Drew:  Mommy?  Mommy?!  MOMMY!! 

Me:  Jesus, Drew!  What? !

Drew:  Um...do monkeys wear hats?  

And for now...

The End

Dammit, Babies R Us!

Recently, I stumbled across the hilarious marketing GENIUS that are the Luv's "First Kid, Second Kid" videos.  If you haven't watched them,  here you go.  I'll wait. 

You are WELCOME. 

And I found this video because I was googling pregnancy information.  Why?  Because it's been a long time since I needed pregnancy information, and also because I'm knocked up. 

Surprise! 

But don't get excited and shit.  That is not what this blog is about, my friend.  Cutesy crap will come later. 

Now, I don't know if I'm noticing this stuff because it's all new and super ridiculous, or because I'm pregnant and therefore offered a skewed product sample.  Anyway, I've begun to compile a list of shit that, at no point, should be marketed to new moms.

Today's product is the NuRoo Pocket...and this beauty was what initially sparked my interest in writing a blog about taking advantage of new moms.  It boasts a variety of sizes, stylish versatility, a supportive belt, skin to skin contact, a no-slip inner pocket, and a model boasting a sneaky expression that makes you wonder whether she just stole someone's baby to shove into her wrap sweater.   

"Sandra", you ask, "Why are you such a coldhearted bitch?  Skin to skin contact with a newborn is important!"

And it is important, reader.  It absolutely is.    And here's the thing:  if you are reading this and justifying this product in your mind (or out loud, for that matter) STOP READING MY SHIT.  I promise you, we are not going to see eye to eye on anything.  Ever.  So scamper off, because our journey together is done. 

So, now that it's just us insensitive assholes, here we go: 

1.  This is not stylish versatility.  It comes in teal or black, and this giant Waverly print, karate-belt looking thing.  Which, as long as were on the topic of the "supportive belt", let's just go ahead and address that your body comes equipped with supportive equipment to hold your newborn ball of awesomeness.  They're called your fucking ARMS. 

2.  Don't get me wrong.  I absolutely understand that skin to skin contact is crucial.  I fully support breastfeeding, waist-up naked sitting with a blanket over you and your munchkin...shit, even without the blanket.  If you and your baby want to kick it au natural, I say do it.  But understand this:  unless you're Honey BooBoo's mom, your brand new bucket of cuddles is going to be able to fit inside your shirt for exactly six seconds.  Maybe ten seconds, if you were lucky enough to birth a child under eight pounds. 

3.  Number three is, in my opinion, the most important:  At no point, should anyone, ever purchase anything to hold a baby that has a NO SLIP INNER FUCKING POCKET.  Because guess what?  Unless you're Gorilla Glu-ing your baby into this goddamn shirt, assume that "no-slip" means that a slip or two can occur.  And in case the instructor of the parenting class didn't tell you, dropping your infant basket of giggles is pretty much frowned upon.   

...And Everything In Its Place

It started with planning. Planning meals, planning events, planning homework schedules. The planning became a compulsion, a temporary world where (if the spreadsheet was done right and the colors complemented each other) everything made sense. Planning gave her a sense of power and a feeling of control. She liked the control. Control of the order in which the house was going to be cleaned, the number of loads of laundry that would be completed, or the vision of a sparkling clean and peaceful home. The order and plan varied by project, naturally. But the picture in her brain of the end result...that stayed the same. At the end of the day, there was always to be a spotless home, a warm cup of coffee, candles flickering with tropical scents, all her homework assignments complete, and the serene quiet that is only really yearned for by heavy metal roadies and mothers of toddlers.

Mediocrity became her arch enemy, and done well and half-assed became synonymous. Somehow, she felt that if their household was organized and her desired level of perfection attained, the feelings of peace and accomplishment would overshadow the emotions she fought tirelessly to ignore. The longing to have her husband home, the dull ache in her stomach as she waited for the phone to ring, and the fear that the phone would not ring, and that she could easily become one of the many that...well, you know. As long as their home stayed dust free and in precise order, the dust covered Afghanistan would somehow balance karmically and keep her husband safe. She knew the thought process was as senseless as some of the war casualties were, and she knew that if life were to change, the absoluteness of the situation wouldn't be altered or sugar coated by a clean bathroom floor or laundered curtains. But she scrubbed and washed, nonetheless, until everything shone and smelled pleasantly of bleached flowers.

Bit by bit, she worked her way through their home. Meticulously wiping, scrubbing, vacuuming and rinsing every inch of reachable space. Nothing left undone, for fear that it would mess up the order of the never ending task. Although two pets and the spastic three year old loin fruit rendered the task of cleaning down to little more than a vicious, lavender scented circle, she scoured every inch of the self-imposed first circle of Hell like each stroke of the sponge put a gallon of fuel into her husband's plane home.

The plastic doctor's kits and floppy brown slices of apple became par for the course, and were picked up daily without thought. Spiderman stretched proudly across the comforter that was tucked in neatly every day, and the dinosaurs knew better than to stay the night with the train sets or the puzzles. Once the task of righting the toddler-topia was complete, she would move to their room. Although it had long since felt like her room, she worked around it as though doing it wrong would make him uncomfortable. So she continued to fix the sheets on his side of the bed just the way he liked them. Sometimes she'd pretend that he would be there to sleep under them that night, and sometimes she'd allow the knowledge that she'd sleep alone again. In either event, she'd convince a smile onto her face and keep tucking, as though tucking the bedding tightly enough would coax her sanity to stay in place, too. She kept his soaps and razors in the shower caddy, although they were so light from being nearly empty that the bottles frequently fell down onto her head when the caddy was bumped. She put the t-shirts of his that she wore back in his bureau, even though she was the only one there to take them out and wear them. She left his cologne taking up space on the shelf, missing his scent but terrified that if she smelled it, the emotions would take over. So there it sat and there it would stay, dust free and full of the smell of the love she missed, encased in green glass and silent mocking.

Most days she was able to ignore the pain and loneliness. Even when their son cried relentlessly for Daddy. Even on those days, she was able to keep a brave face and provide comfort. But some days...some days, being human took hold. Some days she would cry relentlessly with the boy, and they would hug each other back into solace. But those days, the days when humanity flexed its awful grip, the glorious feelings brought on by cleaning, organizing, and perfection came to a screeching halt. The glorious feelings were then replaced by feelings of anxiety, discomfort, and fury with the marital dislocation. Most times, she was able to push them down so they weren't so overwhelming, so it was just enough to feel like things weren't the way they were supposed to be. Like when you pick up a pencil and your brain and hand don't agree, so the pencil takes flight. Easily remedied, but still askew and still all her fault. Still needing to be fixed, regardless of the situation the repair interrupted.

It wasn't all bad, though. The hard work and exhaustion, whether from algebraic equations or furniture polishing (or, more often than not, both) were rewarding. For each dish put away clean, each sheet smoothed and pillow plumped, each paper typed and resource cited, she checked off a block on her mental list that equated to keeping up her end of the bargain. She'd traded in her dusty boots and guns in favor of securing the home front, and she would be damned if their home ran like anything other than a Swiss timepiece. As long as he was away, she'd keep the world they'd built in order.

As long as nothing was out of place, in her mind, he was safe.

When Holiday Travelin' Bitches Be Crazy....

I have to be honest, guys. I respect the casual flier. Now, I'm not talking Wal-Mart Couture or anything. But decent jeans or sweatpants, hoodies, t shirts, sunglasses, sneakers, ponytails...you know, the kind of shit that you wish you were wearing during travel, but never are. I love it. My standard uniform whilst flying is jeans, t shirt, hair in a bun, iPod, purse, and flippie floppies. I swing by a Starbucks, and my coffee, my iPod and I sit at the gate. You know, because there's nothing like drinking something with an octane rating and resting up to sit down for multiple hours. What can I say? I like coffee, and I enjoy sitting.

Part of the funFunFUN of airplanes and airports are seeing people at what they think is their best. They've prepared, scheduled, squeezed the air out of space saving bags, and long term parked. They've caffed, they've coiffed, and they're ready to fly the friendly skies, bitch. Exhibit A:

You think I googled that? Think again, baby. She and her shiny pleather aura of awesomeness were three rows in front of me. She was here, she was in lamineer, and everybody was going to have to get used to it.

Except me. I just snapped a picture and made a mental note. Because there's nothing I like more than a good ole fashioned verbal point and laugh.

What I do not like are surprises. I am an early arriver at airports. I abide by the three ounce rule, and make sure that everything is in its quart-sized zip lock bag. I adhere to the carry-on size and ratio. I take my laptop out of its case and give it its own security bucket. I don't wear belts or jewelry, so as not to take too much time and inconvenience my fellow travelers.

They tell you that you can book seats ahead of time...one of the perks of buying the tickets early, I suppose. I know that it was supposed to be that way, too, because I looked at the seat numbers, and was pleased that we weren't tucked soundly in the ass of the plane like we were on the flight out. 12C and D sounded like super duper seats. After biting the bullet and paying the $50 to check two bags, I wrangled the backpack, small duffel, purse, and Spawn-on-a-String (or Drew on a monkey leash, if you prefer) through security and the small cafe. After securing Midget Bait (Twizzlers) and Mommy's Go Juice, we settled our butts on the ground near the gate. We sat, he with the iPad and I with my Parents magazine, munching Twizzlers and relaxing. The intercom bing-bonged, and I heard them page those poor saps...you know, the sad few always stuck in standby purgatory. I'm sure you can imagine the sadness I felt when our last name echoed across the thriving five-gate terminal. I shoved our shit back into our carry-ons and dragged the boy and his half-chewed Twizzler up to the podium, where we were handed two paper stubs. I glanced down, my gaze greeted by the seat numbers 4a and 5c.

What...Tha...FUCK?

What on United Airline's green, expansive, everloving earth was I supposed to do with THAT? As much as I'd enjoy a silent-ish plane ride minus my offspring, I'm fairly certain that the Mom handbook forbids placing your three year old with a stranger on a flight. I think it was in the same chapter as not leaving them on a city bus or allowing them to attend the Warped Tour at 12. Anywho, upon explaining the issue to the very sweet flight attendant, she rolled her eyes in sympathy and pointed to one side, instructing me to take two seats on one side, and then plead my case to whomever was actually supposed to sit next to my child. Thanks, United Airlines, for entrusting my child to someone who may or may not be required to update their living location every ninety days to their local law enforcement agency.

We weren't seated long. Basically, just long enough to settle the boy and our carry-on circus. And then we were greeted by the sneer of what I'm pretty sure the guy on Nighmare Before Christmas looked like before he lost his skin to skeleton-ism. As he glared down his Burton-esque nose, I explained what the airline had done. As I stuttered the words, I looked at the stupid paper stubs, and realized that I'd gone a row too far. As I wrestled our entourage o' crap to the preceding row under the condemnatory gaze of Airbus McPissypants, we were lucky enough to discover his wife, Puffy McPissypants. Our introduction consisted of the same disapproving gaze in our direction, breaking it only briefly to look pointedly over her shoulder at the FOUR people behind her. In fact, she was so busy not-so-subtly indicating that we were holding up boarding that she didn't notice my leather and reproductive baggage trying to squeeze by her massive, flower-clad, Charlie scented corpulence.

My apologetic motivation and stupidity tolerance waned. Well, they didn't so much wane as disappear, and were promptly replaced by visible irritation and my stern voice. I fought the urge to shout that her wrinkly popover cleavage was not only in my way, but also visual pollution. Sweetly, I explained that if she wanted us out of their seats, she needed to back up a bit and give us some room. She sighed heavily, and scooted back. I settled us down again and seethed. I seethed about the injustice of the cost of checked baggage, the injustice of being tired, and the injustice of the airline's carelessness in assigning a toddler a seat that was not parental adjacent. My silence was rapidly rewarded, though. As soon as they were seated, she began to nag at her husband. From family issues to her discomfort with flying (and flying coach, perish the thought), she wove a verbal web of contempt and loathing that made her sound like nothing short of a lovechild of Dr. Laura and Salinger. Smiling at the slight victory, I hugged the boy and cracked the December issue of Martha.

I shouldn't have smiled. My triumph lasted only as long as the tray tables were in an up and locked position.

As soon as Puffy McMonsterbitch was allowed, she dropped her tray table and began to consume a Ceasar salad of comic proportions. Seriously. This thing was roughly the size of the bottomless Olive Garden salad bowl, and smelled like low tide on the Hudson. After she warthogged through it, she passed out snoring at a decibel that furthered the illusion that we were, in fact, tugboating through NYC.

There are a few morals to this story:

Number one: Booking seats when you purchase a ticket does not guarantee said seats. Number two: When needing to vent on a plane, it's a good plan to have a charged laptop and the gift of wit. Number three: When traveling during the holidays and are surrounded by assholery and embossed gold jackets, just smile and think about the power of the internet and camera enabled cell phones. Because now that it's all said and done, I get to show y'all this shit:

You're welcome.

Organizing Your Military Home, Part One

Fall has arrived, everyone! Things are apple and vanilla scented, stores are boasting everything from frozen turkey to Christmas trees, and neighborhood porches are encrusted with maniacally grinning orange gourds. It’s also getting chilly, which signals the beginning of the Great Winter Couch Potato Race! Rather than save your cleaning for spring, why not get some of it done now? Make some room for those holiday gifts, and decluttering will make the house much more bearable during those dark winter months. I promise.

1. Set it up the night before.

I know this sounds simple, and I know it’s something that a lot of people do. But taking it to an extreme is easier at night, and leads to a MUCH simpler morning. Need your morning cup of go juice? Preset your coffee maker. Kids scrambling in the morning to find their backpack stuffers?

Suck up the extra energy it takes to find all the homework and permission slips, and get it all in there the night before. Do the kids eat at home in the morning? Set out bowls, spoons, oatmeal packets, etc. For kids that can’t pick out their own clothes and get dressed (or for kids that will come downstairs in a tutu and cowboy boots if left to their own devices), set aside a drawer or use a cloth hanging organizer in the closet. Then, when folding the mountains of cartoon underwear and t shirts, set aside a week’s worth of outfits. Slide them into the drawer or organizer; and you’re set for the week!

2. Look at your coat closet.

Seriously. Open it up, tilt your head, and squint one eye. Pretend you aren’t you, but a neighbor/friend/family member. Okay, maybe not friend, because it is a cardinal rule in female friendship that you may not judge another Mom’s coat closet. Anyway, take a gander at it. How many coats are hanging? How many shoes are scattered around? Backpacks? Purses? Crayons, kites, neighbor children? Figure out what you need in that closet, and set it aside. What else is in there? Set aside the items that should be put away in other places. Be honest, we don’t need seven pairs of shoes per person in the coat closet. Or, if you do (and you have the type of door that permits it) buy a plastic shoe organizer and hang it on the door. Presto –change-o, floor space! Next, are there extra coats that are in there, but don’t get used? Perhaps they have been outgrown, or one of the munchkins decided they hate purple now. If you can use them again, pack them away. Now, I understand that letting go of things is hard. We love our children, and many times have emotional attachment to the memories that happened in the clothing. Repeat after me: “Getting rid of a BLANK does not make me a bad parent, and does not take away my memories!” Now pack that purple jacket in the donation box mentioned in the next tip, and move on!

3. Boxes, boxes everywhere….

Got some boxes? Cardboard, plastic totes, or footlockers? (We Military folk move a lot, so we all know about the empty boxes hidden away.) Grab a few empties, and designate some general purposes for them. Now that many of the Armed Services require members to arrive hauling every green and tan piece of equipment known to man, it is likely that there are many oddball pieces floating around. And, if you are like me, the stray pieces left after deployment packing were shoved into a closet. Unfortunately, out of sight, out of mind doesn’t work when the stuff ends up teetering precariously on a shelf of an often-used closet. Empty footlockers? Start by putting the equipment in there. If you’re feeling particularly froggy, you can separate the equipment from the clothing, separate it by seasonal use, and even label them with the contents. Voila, packing for the field no longer requires a prayer and a 10 digit grid coordinate!

4. Storage is a Mom’s Best Friend.

Plastic bins are great for seasonal decorations, crafts, and clothing that aren’t immediately necessary. If you don’t have plastic totes with lids, I suggest acquiring some. They aren’t super cheap, but they are worth their weight in organizational gold when you’re getting your life streamlined. They can be found at any Wal Mart or Target, and occasionally on places like Craigslist and Freecycle. Keep your eyes open, and opportunities for these sweet, stackable babies will cross your path.

5. Donate, Donate, Donate!

Big cardboard boxes (like those left over from household goods shipments) are great for donations. Toys, clothes, jackets and shoes are always appreciated this time of year, as are decorations that no longer fit your home and costumes that no longer fit your ankle biters. Drop them off at any ARC, Salvation Army, or Goodwill, and they will be thrilled to have them. Or, if you are busy and selfish about your free time (like I am), the Yahoo group Freecycle allows you to create a free local account. Then you post your offerings, and people will come pick them up. Not at home when they’re coming, or don’t want strangers in your house? Close the box, slap a note on top and let them know it will be a porch or curb pick up. Easy peasy!

6. Dress your closets for success.

I l I liked the snappy title of this, but it by no means applies only to closets. This is also for dressers, bureaus, and overflowing laundry baskets. We all have our “skinny” jeans, the shirts we don’t wear anymore, and the holey granny-panties. Start by going through and pulling out things you just don’t wear. I don’t care how much your BFF swore you’d be able to wear that mint-green bridesmaid dress again, she was wrong. Reach down and grab the inner seething you endured when you had to buy it, and set it free. Shoes that fit before you had your kids? I don’t care how much weight you lose, your feet aren’t going to shrink. Let your foot misfortune bring joy to someone else, and donate them. Purses from yesteryear? If they are too small to hold everything you need and aren’t dedicated to a specific outing (clutches for dress up occasions, for example) lose ‘em. After all that is gone, take out the things that you don’t wear often, and put them into a storage container, and put the storage container away from your closet. Wait thirty days. After thirty days, keep only the clothes you had to retrieve during the month and actually wore. If you didn't need anything, donate the box. Don’t open it, don’t double check. If you didn't get it out for a month, you don’t use it.

Okay, we’ve gone through a lot of information. And just thinking about organizing everything in your life can be exhausting, let alone actually doing it. Take it a bit at a time, or get on a roll! However you choose to streamline your life, remember that your hard work will pay off!

A House Is Not a Home

There are days the panic starts to take over.

You know it won’t last. You know it’s just a bad day, and bad days are bound to happen. They will creep in, unexpected, like a frost that heating off of your car makes you late for work. They will rear their tiny, ugly heads, like an English folk creature that won’t leave your kitchen until you provide the object it’s been looking for, or a cockroach that has taken up residence under your refrigerator.

Days that you wonder what you’re going to do, how you’re going to do it, and if it’s what you’re supposed to be doing. It’s so easy to ignore the big questions and just keep pushing forward, because momentum is good. It makes you feel like something is getting accomplished.

But at what point do the cold cups of coffee, and trips to the potty, and term papers start to become blurry and inane? At what point do you simply avoid reaching out for comfort or solace? Because when you really, really needed it from the one you’re working so hard to emotionally support, and it’s not returned. It’s not rational, not logical, not fair. And when you ask, you’re scoffed at.

Scoffed at.

That bad day…that gnawing, aching pain that rests in your shoulders, your stomach. That bad day that makes you feel like you could crawl out of your skin. That bad day that caused a fight, and then the phone line stopped working. Stupid third world cell phones. Stupid Fights. Stupid bad days. Stupid that I didn’t say I love you before the phone died. Sorry I brought up anything to cause a fight. Sorry that unless you’re here, a house is not a home.

I’m sorry for my bad day.

I Like Free Stuff Too, But Damn! (Colorado Springs Edition #1)

Well, guys, it’s that time. I know I said I’d do this earlier, but I didn’t get around to it until now. Turns out, those degree thingies take work. Oy.

And now? Onto the Freecyclers of my new city of residence, Colorado Springs!

I'm looking for a bike so I can learn to ride. Something in good condition, since I know nothing about bicycles. I don't need anything huge.

Like a circus unicycle. I’d much prefer something with a daisy encrusted wicker basket and a ring a ding bell. That’s what I wanted when I was FIVE, when my parents should have taught me. Douchebags.

Want two carseats for tolddlers as well as a toddler bed with mattress if possible, also an old style school desk, white paint, end tables outdoor toys like swing set, also want a powerwheels truck or car that runs for my sons birthday next week.

Oh, and then some party invitations, some kids to come to a party, a house to have the party in, and spellcheck. And for God’s sake, it has to be by my son’s birthday. Otherwise he’ll think I’m unprepared, and have nowhere to sleep. Or do his homework. Or swing. Or a power wheels vehicle to drive away from me in.

OFFER: some pink and some purple toole (Fountain,CO) some small bits of pink toole some large parts ofpurple toole toole= see through lacey stuff like ballet dancers wear or decor around windows.

Eh, thanks anyway. I just hung a ballerina from my curtain rod. It got the job done.

P.S. Toole=YOU.

OFFER: Pillows One standard size and one travel size pillow, both used.

You’re fucking gross. Nothing about this is okay.

WANTED: CRICKET PHONE (CENTRAL) Hello,Does anybody have a cricket phone??? Im going insane!!!

Yeah. The Cricket store. They called to tell you that their phones are, like, three dollars and don’t require a plan. They said that they are basically the meth dealers of cell phones. But your minutes will probably expire when you’re in crazy phone-withdrawl lockdown.

WANTED: 99 Ply Voyager parts (manitou ) Both visors w/brackets,drivers headlight assy., full size rim/spare, travel/stow gear,window sunscreens,tires, hubcap if match or 2 or 4. Thanks Freecycler

So, the bottom line is that I need a fuckin’ car. With matching hubcaps. Why a 99 Plymouth Voyager? Don’t fuckin’ question me.

OFFER: 2 twin comforters (Springs Ranch ) I have two holey twin comforters. One is GI Joe and I think the other is blue and green. A dog we were watching got a hold of them. They are washed.

Hey, I know a broad with some pillows you should link up with.

WANTED: Recliner that swivels (westside )I am looking for a recliner that swivels in good condition for an elder. Thanks in advance!

An elder what? Tree? Person of importance in the Mormon church? One of those guys from the Matrix?

WANTED: gps navigator (80923) get lost all the time.

You have no idea how much I believe that.

OFFER: organ (80132 monument) Lowrey organ, nice piece in very good condition and works, don't have specific information on it but can send pictures. Need to be
able to move it out yourself with at least 1 or 2 other strong persons, very heavy.

Okay, there’s not a single thing wrong with this post, aside from the fact that two people probably couldn't carry an organ. I just thought it was super cool.

OFFER: pencils (80910) pencils - enough that I can't get my hand around them all. The erasers are hardened. When responding, please include a window of time on which day(s) you'll be able to pick up.

Day(s)?!?! What the FUCK? Someone is going to need to make extra trips to pick up your crusty ass pencils? I know you said you couldn’t get your hand around them all, but is a Ziplock bag and some well-wishing for a single safe, pencil filled trip out of the question?

OFFER: full sized futon matress ( rockrimmon) Also have a frame at seperate location

Bring unmarked bills. And NO COPS. If you don’t listen? The frame gets it.

OFFER: box of books (union & boulder) I have a mid sized box of what appears to be Christian books.

They appear to be Christian books? What, are they wearing masks?

WANTED: Wanted beekeeping supplies ( 80831) any beekeeping supplies.

Like some fuckin’ bees.

OFFER: manual breast pump & pads (80910 ) had a no show. good condition.

You know why they were a no show? Because they came to their goddamn senses, and realized that they were supposed to be picking up a USED BREAST PUMP.

WANTED: FeaTHERS, FEATHERS, FeaTHers, (central) Does anybody have any feathers?????

Okay. I’ve racked my brain, and I’ve got nothin’. (Insert scene from Hook here, with Tootles searching for his marbles....)

It's As Though The Candy Should Belong To Him....

I’m fully aware that this is the first blog I’ve written in, like, six months. It should probably be a piece riddled with beautiful, Soldier adulating prose.

Maybe next week. Today I’m pissy, I haven’t talked to my husband, and the underwire broke in my bra. The clouds keep coming in, and there's just a tiny bit of rain. Then the clouds part and we're back to the miserable hot that makes me grumpy enough to punch a kitten.

Despite the oven-like heat, the fall semester has started, which means a few things:

I am already officially frustrated with the classes that I thought would come most easily to me.

Campus is swarming with every 17 year old flippy haired, patchouli smelling high school graduate in Colorado Springs (except for those going to actual colleges).

I can now purchase candles and plug ins that make my house smell like baked goods. Fall and winter are the only two seasons where cinnamon, apple, or coffee scented things are allowed in my home. Otherwise, I'd gain another hundred pounds and you'd find me sitting in my closet, eating carrot cake mix out of the box. I'm just saying.

We're almost ninety days into this CRAPCRAPMEGACRAP deployment. It feels like it's moving at a snail's pace (if the snail were on crutches and in high heels). But ninety days is three months, and three months is a quarter of the deployment down. I guess 25% isn't so small, percentage wise. Hells bells, those math classes are paying off.

It also means that we're creeping up on the Midget's third birthday, and the first Halloween that he'll actually have some understanding of what's going on. It's a double edged sword, though, his understanding Halloween. Sure, he can walk on his own, he's old enough to pronounce “trick or treat”, and he's decided to dress as Daddy, which is the cutest EFFING thing I've ever seen. I know, I know, it really seems like any down side would be simply overshadowed by all of this, right? WRONG.

“Why?” You ask?

Because, people, genetics are a BITCH. He loves all the candy I love, which means that I either have to sneak the good pieces out (hello, Reese’s, you delicious mofos) or actually share. I think it’s crap, to be honest. I thought that one of the simple pleasures of parenting a toddler was getting the good candy. I mean, I bought the costume, I’m the one taking him out in the cold and making sure he doesn’t get hit by a car or doesn’t end up on a milk carton.

I think I may have found the only acceptable solution.

I’m telling him the good candy tastes like vegetables.

The Breezy Fireplace Conundrum

The new glasses felt funny on her face. Not bad, exactly. Just something different that catches attention. Like a different brand of margarine, or when a razor has dulled itself into nicks so small you don’t notice to wipe the blood away.

She needed the glasses, though. As the years had progressed, her close quarters vision had become less effective, presumably due to the years of oddly colored computer screens that had burned through her retinas. But there was going to be enough trouble getting that degree. No sense in being stubborn about visual necessities.

She sat, watching the red stripe shrouded reason for stretch marks simultaneously perform Batman and cow air assaults on unsuspecting couch pillows and dump trucks. As she watched, she listened to the sound of the Air Force as their aircraft played amongst the clouds like seals in the waves. She wondered when the green tin can of Americana would come for her husband. She thought of other families, and wondered what it must be like. To feel safe, to not be paralyzed by the fear that the news could easily hold information that could change life, instantly and permanently.

The planes continued their afterburner frolic, and she watched smiled quietly at the juxtaposition of their roars with the light breeze toying with the sheer curtains. The fireplace flickered, and she knew that she should close the window. Somehow, though, the counter production didn’t matter as much as the peace that came from having a cool, rainy breeze while enjoying the flames. It was times like these that she felt alright. Creative. Thoughtful. Normal, even. It was times like these that let the potty training, the schoolwork, the cleaning and cooking and laundry fall to the back of her mind. They lay there, dormant, if only intermittently so. Soon enough, the world would rear its ugly head once again, and she would be forced to remember that peace comes in small stretches. Like a beach cove or a vintage thrift shop, you don’t stumble across it every day. As well as she understood that you must have bad to understand good, she just as fervently wished that the bad could come in smaller doses, if it need come at all.

As the time of her muse slowly drifted back into her now chilled coffee cup, she again watched the red clothed diaper demon. This time with affection, fear, and anticipation. She was soon to be his only world…his yearlong, singular connection to those which created him.

The thought weighed heavy on her mind. She sighed, sipped the cold coffee, and willed herself to return to the world of overpriced community college textbooks and toddler urine carpet spots. As she slipped back into reality, somehow, the fireplace stayed lit, and the breeze continued to stroke the curtain.

Perhaps she was distracted by those damned glasses. Or, perhaps, she wanted to stretch the peace just a bit longer.

But What If I Suck At It?

My time, of late, seems to be divided pretty equally between the vacuum, the Dollar Tree, and various school errands. Throw in the occasional grocery schlep and the Diaper Demon’s constant whining for mommydaddycheesemilkieatiwantcatigobyebye, my schedule is pretty full. I could probably even fill up a wall calendar with some to do’s, but...well, who wants to write crap like that on a calendar?

I’m not a huge fan of the “Me Time” phenomenon; at least, not in the weekly Mani Pedi, Coach VS Dolce eyewear debate way. I try to take little bits of my day to chill out, you know, here and there. It’s less “Me Time”, and more “Don’t Beat My Child Time”. I find a few minutes here or there to grab a cup of coffee, watch fifteen minutes of Top Chef, or pretend to be using the bathroom (when I am, in fact, trying out my new can of Veet).

The mother of all my time outs, though, is working on my blog. I love to write, you see. No, seriously, I fucking LOVE to write. Not about anything important, really. I don’t think I could even be placed into a specific blogging group. I don’t write enough about being a parent to be a Mom-blogger. I don’t write enough about current events to be a News Blogger. I don’t purchase anything regularly enough to be a Review Blogger. Mostly I just am inspired by a line, phrase, or picture, and the words start to flow. And boyohboy, do I love when those words start to flow.

Problem is, without a specific focus, you can’t much expect for your writing to project itself. There’s nothing instantly recognizable enough to attach itself to any one subject. That places me squarely in the land of Weblog Ambiguity, of which I am not queen, princess, or jester. Hell, I’m not even that handmaiden that gets to wear those kick ass low cut velvet Renaissance dresses. Which is why the recent suggestion to begin a resume consulting business really set my gears to turning.

“I hate that you did her resume,” she said to me one day (referring to a leader-by-title of ours). “I mean, she’s worthless, and now her resume is going to make her look kick ass.”

It was at that point that I began to feel the tug-of-war between “Shit, she’s right!” and “Hey, wait a minute, my resumes kick ass?”

I guess it’s not too much of a stretch, really. Blogging is just a way to creatively impose your opinion on unsuspecting victims, and there is little that I enjoy more than shoving my obnoxiousness into the great wide beyond (unless you count excessive commas, coffee, or reality television). I’ve noodled the idea around for awhile now, and this morning seemed the right morning to check some stuff out. As the web tabs multiplied, I came to some startling realizations:

You need a name for your company. Then you need a website. What if your name is taken by another website? Do you risk taking a .net or .org, or do you think of another name? Should you take the bull by the horns, and look at making business cards, or is that getting too cocky (no barnyard pun intended). Do you talk to people you’ve helped in this aspect before, and look to them for endorsement? Is electronic communication the best way, or should you include paper copies? Watermarks? Trademarks? And what if I end up sucking at it?

Any accomplished (fully, quasi, delusional, or otherwise) entrepreneurs, please feel free to chime in. Seriously. Please. Chime in, like, NOW.

Your Devil Better Not Wear Prada....

Recently, Jennifer Egan won a Pulitzer prize for her newest fictional work “A Visit From The Goon Squad”. While I am not a fan of works that are (in my humble opinion) some kind of love child that could have been spawned by a brief, drunken tryst between Palahniuk and Grisham, I am pleased for the praise that the writing of a novel should receive, particularly because women have not been as recognized in this avenue that I believe they should have. I am not, however, pleased with her interview with the Wall Street Journal.

The interview began benignly enough, with all the appropriate statements about how things are unreal, uncanny, and how she had to leave her lunch reservation because it was just all too much. The dialogue continued, filling the page mostly with the interviewer asking repeatedly how winning an award of this importance made the author feel, and Egan giving modest replies, like “nutty” and “fantastical”, and stating that now that her book has received such attention, she feels like an outsider, as if she should go back and reread it.

Seems pretty harmless, right?

The last question she was asked referred to the difference in how men and women “come off” in the media. Her outlook on the subject was not focused on the differences in voicing opinions from a gender based standpoint. Rather, it focused on women remaining quiet and aiming for the literary stars. She went on to compare “The Tiger’s Wife” by Tea Obreht, to Kaavya Viswanathan’s quasi-plagiarism of “How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild, and Got a Life”. She called Obreht’s type a “young, ambitious writer”, and then blasted Viswanathan not for her plagiarism, but for plagiarizing works Egan considers to be “derivative, banal stuff”, and for utilizing the authoresses of “Chick-Lit” as role models for the written word.

“My advice for young female writers would be to shoot high and not cower”, ended her article.

I wonder how Egan would have felt if the Pulitzer Foundation had decided that her words were unworthy because…oh, I don’t know, they didn’t like her font? Or her chapter titling preferences were not theirs? The picture over the blurb-ography on the back cover was a bit too hippy-dippie?

Of course, the idea that a foundation dedicated to the existence, fostering, and praise of extraordinary works of art could be capable of (and willing to) degrade an author’s brainchild is insane.

Additional insanity, in my opinion, is the idea that a woman so keen on the idea of female authors would tread so heavily across not only other published, award winning female authors, but also across those who read the above mentioned, and are just finding the best way to let the ink flow from their pens.

Be it Jennifer Weiner, Peter Beagle, Norman Mailer, or the shadow writer for Nicole Richie, if it is inspiring to you, it is inspiring.

Whether your tastes lie with Kinsella or with Tolstoy, when you write, your words are your own, and let no one take your muse from you.

Move It. There Is No "Lose It" Option.

I’ve stumbled over my typed words more than once today, trying to think of a witty way to start up this “We’ve Settled” blog. As my backspace key is getting a bit abused, I’m just going to get on with it.

For those that have sipped the Zuckerburg cocktail, you were no doubt slapped about the face repeatedly with my pictures of the diaper demon (in various states of distress and/or shenanigan), Check-Ins in towns where Wes Craven is no doubt Coming Soon.

If you don’t follow my status abuse or visual pollution, here’s your chance to catch up.

First? Maryland is FREAKIN’ BIG. Seriously. I didn’t know it was that big, and that it’d take that long to get across. You look at a map, and you’re thinking “Oh, little Maryland. You’re so sweet and little. Would you like a lollipop or a balloon? How about a hug? Ohhh, you….”

Stop it. Maryland isn’t little, and it doesn’t deserve a lollipop or a hug. It deserves a poke in the schnoz for being huge, having crappy roads, shitty drivers, and having the town of Hancock. Why do I have a problem with Hancock, MD, you ask? Google it. And when you’re done, send me the lollipop and balloon.

The next few days consisted of: WestVirginiaPennsylvaniaWestVirginiaOhioIndianaIllinoisMissouriKansas. I’d like to offer nice tidbits about each place. I can tell you (without having spent any significant amount of time in any of these contributors to the good ole Stars and Bars) is that their part of highway 70 seems to run pretty straight, and their traffic is us usually not bad. We drove on through Wyandotte County, Kansas, which I hadn’t seen for a few years. Looking at it in the early spring with late winter tendencies brought the move to (and quick move from) Kansas City to mind. It was then (and pretty much only then) that I did a quick and silent shout out in gratitude that we were not being stationed at Fort Riley. My gratitude and smiles were short lived, as we quickly passed through Wyandotte County and were greeted with a sign stating that we were passing the last “Free Exit”.

Last Free Exit? What the French, Toast? My husband and I exchanged panicked Walkie Talkie transmissions as we struggled to search for loose change while navigating vehicles laden with a thousand pounds each. Vehicles jerked in and out of lanes as he yelled at me that I’d LIVED here, how could I not KNOW that there was a toll?!, as I screeched back that I’d never BEEN past Kansas City, and did he SEE the landscape? Why would I GO out there?” Our shriek fest was short lived, however, as we only needed press the button to retrieve our ticket, and pay at the off ramp. Three whole dollars later, we had washed our hands of our current Midwest highway debacle, and we continued through…well…nothingness.

Our last travel night was spent in Oakley, Kansas. We were met there by a three story truck stop, and the first warm meal that didn’t come with a supersize option. We took the Prince of Processed Cheese swimming, and slept a little more easily than the previous nights.

We woke early and drove through one of East Kansas’ famed April snowstorms. As I bobbed my head to Esthero, suddenly the clouds parted, and Pikes Peak came looming beautifully into view.

About Effing Time.